


The Climb (A Lie, A Hero)

by Callioope



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, F/M, prompt, this is my attempt at levity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-16 22:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13063347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callioope/pseuds/Callioope
Summary: Jyn tells the story several times: first she tells the medics, then she tells Draven, then she tells her new friends. What she tells them is this: he climbed up after me.Only it isn't true.How can Cassian bring himself to tell her?#Based on a tumblr prompt





	The Climb (A Lie, A Hero)

**Author's Note:**

> So this is based on a prompt, following some tumblr meta about how Cassian couldn't have climbed up the data tower on Scarif with a broken back. There's a line in the novelization: " _He looked like a man who'd fallen twelve stories and clawed his way back to the top._ " Sort of implying that Jyn, at least, believes he climbed up after her.
> 
> So the prompt: _they survive Scarif and Jyn believes he climbed up and of course Cassian doesn’t want to admit the truth thinking climbing up makes the story more intriguing never mind that everyone around them but Jyn starts to question his story and he’s trying to keep the truth from Jyn_
> 
> I couldn't have Cassian intentionally lie to Jyn so -- well, you'll see. 
> 
> This is probably completely ridiculous, and sort of outside my wheelhouse a bit, but I gave it a shot.

It happens when Cassian isn’t even conscious.

Jyn tells the story several times:

First, she tells the medics, lists out his injuries and how they were obtained, to optimize his treatment.

She shoots out the words the second her feet touch the tarmac, the second she sees the doctors and medical droids, and she’s so tired and worried and, honestly, in quite a bit of pain herself, that her story isn’t entirely coherent (as long as it’s coherent enough for them to treat him).

She hits the main points—the blaster wound, the back injury, the possibly broken leg—and maybe the filler details aren’t entirely accurate. Maybe she doesn’t even know what’s accurate. Maybe she doesn’t care.

What matters is that he’s alive, and that he stay that way.

Then, she tells Draven, delivers a full report for him, in a dark interrogation room that makes her feel more punished than praised (not that she _needs_ praise, it just seems like maybe, after obtaining one of the Empire’s deadliest secrets, she ought to get some kind of acknowledgement).

Draven’s intention, as far as she can tell, is to mix her up, get her to trip over her story; she won’t admit that maybe she’s just still tired and confused and tripping over the details herself, entirely unprompted. Regardless, she tells the story as best she can, as quickly as she can, so she can get out of that room and return to — more interesting places.

(She’s learning a lot about medical care that could come handy, in the future. Not that she’s thinking about a future with—well. She’s learning a lot.)

Finally, she tells her friends: confesses the events of that day, hesitantly, as if she’s handing over her mother’s kyber crystal.

She’s the last to share her story, among the four of them (Cassian still being confined to bed rest and bacta treatments). Chirrut has to draw it out of her, but if she can be honest or brave enough to admit it, it does feel better, to tell them. It feels better to tell people who understand, people who know him, people who know her, however briefly.

What she tells them is this: he climbed up after me.

No one ever questions her, and the Force answers her prayers, and people stop asking her, and she moves on.

#

Cassian wakes, somewhat delirious from pain meds, and answers a series of questions, some of which make sense, some of which don’t, and forgets everything by the time he wakes up again.

A few days later, Draven appears, asks for a minimal report (a more detailed one to follow, when he’s further along his recovery) and there’s just one question that throws him off, just a little.

“How long did it take you to get to the top of the tower?”

Confused, frowning, wondering what that has to do with anything, he answers. Draven raises his brows slightly, but doesn’t say anything, and the conversation moves on to more significant topics.

It’s not until after Luke Skywalker destroys the Death Star, after the chaos of evacuating, after they’re settled aboard the _Redemption_ , that he gets the next clue.

And it comes from the hero himself.

“This is Cassian,” Bodhi says to Skywalker.

The boy in front of him grins and shakes his hand. “Captain Andor,” he says, far too enthusiastic. “I’ve heard about you. Another hero of Scarif, the man who climbed a tower with a broken back.”

Cassian withdraws his hand.

This—sort of—explains the curious looks he’d received in the mess, in the halls, in briefings: the strange mix of pity and awe mingling on the faces of anyone who spotted him limping and leaning on his cane.

He glances quickly at Bodhi, whose smile betrays nothing insightful (nothing beyond a certain admiration for the hotshot pilot).

“And, ah, where did you hear that?” Cassian finally asks.

Skywalker shrugs. “I don’t know, around,” he says nonchalantly, as if this is some minute detail of his new life in the rebellion. Perhaps, to him, it is. “I think maybe Wedge told me.”

That a pilot who was not present at Scarif presumes to know what happened there confirms his suspicion. The rebellion rumor mill doesn’t stop production on account of evacuations, apparently.

Again he checks on Bodhi, who has developed an intense fascination with the floor.

“Antilles?” Cassian confirms. Skywalker nods. “What exactly did he tell you?”

“Oh, you know…” Skywalker gives his own summary of the events of Scarif, some parts true, some parts not, some parts clearly hyperbole, some parts minor falsehoods rooted in truth. It’s a mix of perspectives, from the ground, from the air, from inside the tower.

And of the latter, only one person was present who would have any idea what happened.

“Is that not what happened?” Skywalker finally asks, as he ends his story and notices Cassian’s frown.

“More or less,” Bodhi says. When Cassian looks at him sharply, he deflates slightly. “Jyn didn’t think you’d mind,” he adds.

“That’s the story Jyn told?”

“Um,” Bodhi says. “Yes.”

Cassian blinks at this new information — he would have guessed the detail of him _climbing a data tower_ with a _broken back_ would have been an invention of bored rebel soldiers, not something of Jyn’s own concoction.

Why would she say this?

Does she believe it?

He has to find her.

He has to tell her.

It’s bad enough that the entire rebellion seems to have the wrong impression of him—it’s bad enough that the entire rebellion seems to have an impression of him at all.

But he’d lied to Jyn before, lied about her father and his mission, and if they’ve been granted this new start, he wants to get it right, wants to be upfront, wants her to know the truth.

He is not the kind of hero that climbs a tower with a broken back. (Honestly, could a Jedi even do that?)

He is a spy. (That means liar.)

But he won’t lie to her.

#

He might lie her to.

“Hey, Cassian,” she says, as he settles next to her in the mess. She offers him that rare and ordinary smile, one of the few clear things he remembers from the time after his fall and before he’d been treated.

She hasn’t always looked at him that way.

If he’s honest with himself—and perhaps his conscious is overcompensating because he didn’t use to let himself dwell on such subjects—no one has really looked at him that way for a very long time.

And it’s nice.

He decides to work his way towards the subject, to take the scenic path, to meander around in other conversations, just to hear her voice memorize her smile get to know her. (It’s okay if it’s all three, isn’t it?)

“Something wrong?” she asks, watching him push around his food on his tray.

_He will not lie._

He clears his throat.

“The, uh,” he gestures around the mess with his fork, “masses seem to enjoy talking about Scarif.”

She shrugs and rolls her eyes. “I thought they’d forgotten about that after the—Death Star.”

He notices, just for a second, how her voice changes at the end of her sentence, how her nonchalance is more affected than sincere.

“Did you know Skywalker turned off his targeting computer?” she blurts. Her fingers pick at the cardboard of her empty milk container.

“Bodhi mentioned it,” Cassian says.

The corner of her mouth ticks up. “Yea, I bet he did.”

They share small, knowing smiles for a second before he clears his throat again. He scoots a little closer to Jyn, turns to face her fully.

“Do you think it’s true?” he asks.

She considers it for a moment, hand moving towards the kyber pendant hanging around her neck. “I’ve heard stranger things,” she says.

_Like a man with a broken back climbing a data tower_ , he thinks.

“Like some of the rumors going around about us?” he asks.

Her eyes widen and, to his surprise, her cheeks flush slightly. “About—us?” she says, and this time, her face reminds him of the moment in the turbolift, that scared look like she can read his thoughts and isn’t ready for them, and he realizes how close they are, and he realizes what she _means_ …

He leans back, gives her space.

He is a spy, and spies are smooth and not phased by sudden and overwhelming feelings for their — partner? (Could he call her his partner? They have yet to get new assignments, but he suspects Draven might relent soon and let him build his own team.)

“Um,” he clears his throat again, “about Scarif, I mean.”

_Very smooth, Andor._

(He sounds like Bodhi, stuttering in front of Skywalker.)

“Oh.” She looks away, but if she’s trying to hide her reddening cheeks, she’s exposing her reddening neck.

(Which he _would_ climb, with his lips, breathing in the smell of her hair—)

( _Get a grip, Andor._ )

“Chirrut coerced it out of me,” she admits, finally meeting his eyes again, this time defiant. “The story about Scarif. I didn’t really want to tell anyone, but they wanted to know, and I couldn’t think of a reason not to tell them. I didn’t think they’d tell everyone.”

Has he been obvious, this whole conversation, or does she already know him well enough to know why he brought it up in the first place?

“Sorry you have to lose your cool and mysterious persona. Keep scowling like that, you might get it back.”

She grins at his bewildered expression that follows.

“Look, Cassian,” she says, taking his hand, defaulting back into seriousness. “It meant a lot to me, what you did. I told you. I’m not used to people sticking around. Luke Skywalker blew up the Death Star, but,” and her face turns redder than it has this whole conversation, but she continues without hesitation, continues with determination and conviction and sincerity, “you’re the man who climbed up after me. So. I don’t regret telling people that about you.”

He might as well be falling in that tower again, falling without a net, without a beam to jolt him or a platform to catch him; and her hand squeezing his does not help in the slightest.

She lets go of his hand, smiles softly, casually, as if she did not just upend his entire world.

“I’m teaching a combat class in an hour,” she says, standing up, “and I’ve got to go get ready. Swing by, if you want.”

He nods absently, and she’s halfway out the door before he makes any sense out of what just happened.

Someone had once told him—maybe his mother or his father or his older sister—that a lie of omission is still a lie.

He didn’t correct her.

And he can’t imagine doing so now.

#

Here is a truth: it’s not really a significant detail.

It doesn’t change very much.

It doesn’t change his treatment plan or the final outcome of the retroactively sanctioned mission to Scarif.

(It might change the way people look at him.)

It wasn’t his lie.

(It might change the way his new friends look at him.)

It was Jyn’s false assumption.

(It might change the way Jyn looks at him.)

He can’t be blamed for that, can he?

And it doesn’t have to come up in conversation. If it doesn’t come up in conversation, he isn’t obligated to correct the story. If he has no opportunity to correct the story, he’s not _really_ responsible, right?

#

It doesn’t come up in conversation, per se, at least not casual conversation.

“You haven’t been doing the physical therapy exercises discussed in your last check up,” Dr. Yomaros says. “Why not?

His back still aches, his leg aches, it’s a daily struggle to maintain his typical neutral expression at all times.

“They’re not necessary,” he says.

“Based on your current expression,” she says, eyes flicking briefly to his face before looking back to the datapad in her hands. She types something. “I’d be inclined to disagree.”

He sighs, rests his hands on the edge of the gurney and leans into them to relieve some of the strain on his back.

“But I didn’t…” He sighs. Dr. Yomaros isn’t likely to tell Jyn. Besides, his medical records are confidential. “I did not experience the trauma previously described.”

“Captain Andor,” she says, and he thinks he hears a level of mild annoyance that inspires a dull ache in his chest and memories of K-2. “The treatment plan is determined by the state of your injuries, and the muscles in your back were strained to compensate for the damage done to your vertebrae when you fell.”

“But I didn’t strain — I didn’t climb that tower,” he says.

(Revealing this truth does not provide any level catharsis as he might have expected.)

“Of course you didn’t climb anything,” she says, not even sounding mildly surprised; in fact, she seems to be repressing a smirk.

“But during my first consultation…”

“The medical droid was reading from your file,” she says, shrugging. “We’re obligated to record all information provided.”

“Even if—”

“Sergeant Erso’s story was helpful in shaping our understanding of your injuries,” she says, setting down the data pad and meeting his eyes. “But not strictly necessary. A blaster wound is easy to diagnose, you experienced severe blunt trauma to your back which cracked several vertebrae, and your ankle was broken. _How_ you sustained those injuries doesn’t shape your treatment.”

She crosses her arms, leans back against the counter. “What _does_ affect your treatment is the fact that you moved at all after you fell. Of _course_ you didn’t climb anything—I’m guessing you crawled? Maybe took a few steps, with Sergeant Erso’s support?—but the muscles in your back were still strained. So, Captain, the treatment plan remains the same. Please return tomorrow for massage therapy.”

He sighs, rubs his face. “Doctor, does anyone else know—”

“Just me,” she says. She cocks her head to the side, crosses her arms. Now she does smirk. “I wouldn’t have thought you the proud type. If I may…”

He says nothing, doesn’t encourage or discourage her from continuing.

“What you did is no less impressive,” she says. “And I think you deserve that medal. And Sergeant Erso does, too.”

“Pardon?” Before Scarif (before _Jyn_ ), he was never caught off guard so frequently.

(He has no idea about any medal.)

(Or why his doctor has decided to offer an opinion on his personal affairs.)

(He is aware that she is Jyn’s doctor, too.)

(For whatever that’s worth.)

“Whether you climbed or crawled,” the doctor says. “You’re a hero of Scarif, Captain.”

He convinced a group of soldiers to follow him on an unauthorized mission, helped steal a ship, and—he led those soldiers to their deaths. If anyone could be called heroic, it would be them. Certainly not him.

He’s lucky he isn’t being court-martialed.

“Is there anything else, doctor?” he asks, in a pointedly clipped tone.

“Do your exercises,” she says, “Come in for the massages.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

#

He sets out from the medbay en route to command.

Draven will know who is behind this commendation, and Draven will be able to stop it.

Most likely.

As long as Mothma’s not behind it.

(He really hopes they aren’t planning another ceremony.)

He enters command, looks about for Draven and—remembers that he’s in the middle of a group briefing. He had declined the invitation to that meeting, as it had conflicted with his exam and pertained to a ground mission he couldn’t participate in.

He quietly opens the door, slips in anyways, catches Draven’s eyes as he enters. The general nods slightly, but otherwise doesn’t alter his speech.

It goes on for quite a while.

Cassian is patient. He settles into a chair at the back of the room. He can wait to bring up his concerns.

He doesn’t expect them to come up all on their own.

“From there, we’ll infiltrate the facility on site,” Draven explains, gesturing to its location on the map blown up behind him. “The perimeter is heavily guarded on three sides; the fourth drops out into a cliff.”

“Where’s Andor when you need him?” someone at the front says, and his voice _sounds_ mostly neutral, but Cassian detects a hint of irony. (No, he is not being overly sensitive to the subject. He’s just trained to pick up on multiple meanings.)

Someone on the other side of the room snickers.

Clearly, command is desperate for willing and able field operatives. Whoever these guys are, they won’t last long if they can’t take a briefing seriously.

Draven fixes the speaker and the laugher with a glare. “Captain Andor is recovering from his mission on Scarif,” he says, not missing a beat, not even glancing at Cassian. “He’s not sanctioned for field missions at this time.”

“Maybe he can offer some training,” another soldier says. Several more snickers. (He doesn’t like what this new development implies.)

“Captain Andor,” Draven says, and now he sounds annoyed. “Got any tips?”

Several soldiers cringe as they turn to face him.

Unfazed, arms crossed, Cassian says, “Don’t fall.”

Several more snickers, noticeably from different people.

“Alternatively,” he continues, “use the fake scan docs provided by Technical Services and go in the front door.”

“Any other questions?” Draven asks. “Or are we all caught up on the reading materials provided ahead of this meeting?” He pauses. Silence. “It will work like this…”

After the meeting, Cassian joins Draven at the front of the room.

“Your exam finished early,” the general says. “Any chance you’re cleared for field work again?”

“Unfortunately,” Cassian says, “you’re stuck with this crowd a little longer.”

Draven grunts. “Anything you can do to heal faster?”

“Avoiding unnecessary medal ceremonies might speed up the process.”

Draven raises an eyebrow. “Caught wind of that, did you?”

“Doctor Yomaros mentioned it.”

“And you don’t want recognition?”

“No, sir.” He hesitates. “It would feel insincere.”

His mentor rubs his chin, observes his face. “Is this about the climbing?” he asks, finally.

“What?” Cassian says. It’s a bad habit, being taken by surprise; he’s out of practice, he’s getting soft spending all his time in the medbay. He really _does_ want to get back in the field. He belongs there more than on any dais. “No, sir.”

(It’s not _just_ about the climbing.)

The corner of Draven’s mouth twitches slightly. “Right. Just to be clear, you wouldn’t be receiving a medal for climbing a tower.”

“It’d be ridiculous if I was,” Cassian says. “It’d be ridiculous either way.”

Draven crosses his arms. “Since we’re on the subject,” he says, “it seems your actions on Scarif have drawn some attention.”

“Not my doing, sir,” Cassian says.

“Of course not,” Draven says. “You wouldn’t be responsible for circulating a false story so unbelievable.”

“I’d prefer not to draw attention to myself.”

Draven nods. “You should be aware. Your name and those of your … recruits … were considered for the ceremony honoring Skywalker and Solo. The committee decided against your inclusion — ”

“As would have been our wish,” Cassian says quickly.

“Regardless,” Draven continues, “it seems public fascination with your mission surfaced around that time. The rebellion is eager to see Rogue One honored equally.”

Cassian stares. “So you’re saying you can’t stop this.”

“It’d be good for morale,” Draven says.

“And blowing up the Death Star wasn’t?” Draven arches an eyebrow, so Cassian adds, “Sir?”

“The subsequent evacuation and dispersal of troops wasn’t, no,” he says flatly.

Cassian closes his eyes and nods.

“Captain,” Draven says, turning away to gather his things. “Best way to get rid of these rumors is to go through with the ceremony. People will be satisfied and move on.”

Very rarely has Cassian disagreed with Draven. (Even about Galen Erso, at least initially.)

Still he hesitates.

“Do it, and I'll grant you that team you want.”

“Yes, sir,” he says.

#

“Why do we have to do this again?”

Cassian glances up from his tray, meets Jyn’s eyes. “Morale,” he mutters.

“Morale,” Bodhi echoes. “Didn’t we just destroy the deadliest super weapon in the history of the galaxy?”

Jyn still tenses when anyone mentions the Death Star; not in any obvious way, but he can see the slight shift in her shoulders, the way her jaw clenches. Underneath the table, he slides his foot until it meets hers.

Just as subtly, the corner of her mouth tilts up.

“Yes, Bodhi,” Chirrut says, from the other side of Cassian. “Luke Skywalker is very impressive.”

“That wasn’t—I mean—I didn’t mean…”

“It’s okay to be in love with him,” Baze says.

Bodhi turns red. “I’m not—”

“What I meant,” Jyn says, “was, why do we have to do this _interview_?”

Cassian grimaces; across the table, Jyn mirrors his feelings. She’s posed an excellent question, and Draven had been particularly unavailable to answer it beyond a shrug and a “that decision is up to whoever is organizing the ceremony.”

He shrugs. “Supposedly, they want to give us an introduction.”

Jyn scoffs. “That’s hardly necessary.”

“I don’t know, I…” Bodhi says, focused on his food. His fork scrapes against the plate as he pushes around some mashed vegetable. “I kind of like the idea, of getting to tell our story.”

“We already told our story,” Jyn says. “The entire population of the Redemption—the entire _rebellion_ knows our story. And I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole kriffin’ galaxy knew it by now.”

“We still haven’t heard Cassian’s story,” Chirrut says.

“You may as well have,” Jyn says. “It’s just the same as mine.”

He can still feel her foot, touching his.

“Sometimes the story isn’t in the details,” Chirrut says, “but in the _way_ the details are told.”

Jyn shrugs and turns back to her food.

“It _was_ helpful,” Bodhi says to Cassian. “Saying what happened. It helped me.”

Cassian doesn’t respond; what can he say except to clarify that despite both Cassian and Bodhi’s presence on Scarif, the circumstances are entirely different?

(Bodhi isn’t a liar.)

(Bodhi really is a hero.)

“If you’re carrying a weight around, Captain,” Chirrut says thoughtfully. “It would help lighten your burden.”

Cassian eyes Chirrut, but still says nothing.

“Don’t let Chirrut do his Jedi mind trick,” Jyn says. “If you don’t want to talk, it’s fine.”

“It’s up to you,” Chirrut says. “Also, not a Jedi.”

“Luke is—”

“We know, Bodhi!” the table choruses.

#

Chirrut traps him at the caf station, in the back corner of the briefing room, about ten minutes before the interview is supposed to start.

“Something bothering you?” he asks.

“No,” Cassian says. “Why do you ask?”

“You’ve been staring at the caf machine for two minutes,” he says.

Cassian frowns and presses the button.

“You feel guilty about the tower,” Chirrut says.

Expression neutral, casual, he lies, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” (He has no problem lying to Chirrut.)

“It is a good story,” Chirrut says, “very heroic. Demonstrates your great sense of caring.”

He doesn’t say anything, just glances at Chirrut’s face, which betrays no emotion other than amusement. Cassian lets go of the button, takes his cup of caf and steps around Chirrut.

“If you don’t like the story,” Chirrut goes on, “Why don’t you tell a different one?”

Chirrut may not be able to _see_ Cassian’s face, but he certainly sees right through Cassian.

He sighs. Wonders if he might ever fool Chirrut Îmwe, a spy’s nightmare.

“If it—means something to Jyn,” he starts. He doesn’t know how to finish that sentence, but Chirrut had, in a way, already said it: _demonstrates your great sense of caring_ . He could not have climbed that tower, not with the injuries he’s still, in fact, recovering from. But the sentiment—the idea that he _would_ —there’s truth in that.

Chirrut nods knowingly.

“Sometimes, a lie can be true in spirit,” Chirrut says.

Baze appears; when Cassian looks up, he spots Bodhi and Jyn mingling at the front of the room with a few other Scarif survivors.

“This thing broken or not?” Baze says.

“It’s functioning,” Chirrut says.

Baze drops a tea bag into an empty cup, sets it under the tap, and presses the hot water button.

“Baze, in particular, is fond of his own lie,” Chirrut says.

Baze rolls his eyes. “ _I_ protected you.”

Chirrut grins.

“The Force protected me,” he says. “But I appreciate that you tried.”

“This about the elevator?” Baze asks. He removes his cup from the machine and stirs the bag around in the water.

“Pardon?” Cassian says.

“Yes,” Chirrut says, “He feels guilty for lying to Jyn.”

“You’re a spy,” Baze says. “You lie all the time.”

“Not to Jyn,” he says quickly, before he can stop himself. Baze arches an eyebrow, but Chirrut seems unfazed. “Not anymore,” he adds. “Wait—you know about the tower?”

“Of course,” Baze says.

“For how long?”

Baze shrugs.

“How did you know?”

“The Force reveals all,” Chirrut says.

Baze snorts. “Jyn practically dragged you onto the ship,” he says. “You spent the first week here in surgery and bacta treatment. No way you climbed anything like that.”

“Does Jyn know?”

Neither Baze nor Chirrut answers right away.

“Does she?”

“I don’t think she’s thought about it,” Baze says.

“No,” Chirrut says. “Definitely not.”

“What about Bodhi?”

Chirrut ponders this. “Possibly. He’s hard to read.”

“Bodhi Rook is hard to read?” Cassian asks. Bodhi, who talks a little too much, who stammers his heart into the world, is hard to read, while Chirrut never seems to have much trouble reading Cassian, the spy.

“Oh, you’re easy to read,” Chirrut says.

“That’s very reassuring,” Cassian says. “What am I supposed to do for this interview?”

“Oh,” Chirrut waves his hand. “Just make something up.”

“That’s—I just—”

“Just follow my lead, Captain.”

He shrugs and shakes his head. “Alright.”

Baze takes a sip of his tea and blanches.

“I keep telling you,” Chirrut says, “It’s not real tea.”

Baze grumbles something in Jedhan.

The door opens and their interviewer enters the room.

“So, feeling better?” Chirrut asks, as they make their way to the front to take a seat.

Cassian could definitively say that he did not.

#

Their interviewer is from Mothma’s team, someone a little lower in rank, Cassian suspects. He’s a thin man, clutching his datapad with pale fingers, and he seems entirely too enthusiastic for Cassian’s liking.

“Nash Ardinn,” he says, pulling a chair to front of the room. He positions it just ahead of the line of chairs they all sit in, gesturing for them to fill out into a circle. “It’s a pleasure to meet you all. We’d like to prepare a proper introduction for you,” he explains. “For the ceremony. And we want to get the story straight.” He settles down in his chair. “You never know what rumors are true.”

“All the ones about me are true,” Chirrut says.

“So you are a Jedi, then?” Ardinn says quickly.

“The Force shall reveal all,” Chirrut says.

Ardinn stares at him for a moment, blinks.

No one offers any clarification.

Cassian spends the awkward silence carefully crafting how he will be specifically vague about his ascension to the top of the tower.

“Let’s get started,” Ardinn says. He glances down at his datapad. “How did you get past the Imperial garrison?”

So the agony begins. Chirrut takes the reins of the conversation early on, drawing, presumably, on the stories he’s heard from everyone else. Though he has never done it in any official briefing, Cassian finds himself tuning out Chirrut’s words; his brain, instead, opts to panic.

Couldn’t Ardinn have consulted the briefing reports for this information? Is this some kind of petty revenge, for defying the council’s orders? Maybe a court-martial _would_ have been better, if that’s the case. The truth, his secret, hovers on the horizon, like the shockwave of the Death Star’s destruction. What can he do, when the moment comes? What can he say? What will happen to Jyn when it’s revealed?

“You alright, Captain?” Chirrut says, pausing in his monologue. Ardinn turns to look at him.

“Fine,” he says. “Go on.”

Chirrut sits for a moment, silent, thinking.

“You were saying?” Ardinn prompts.

“Yes,” Chirrut says, nodding, “that’s when I saw Jyn, racing across the shore, a data file clutched in her hands. And Captain Andor followed.”

Ardinn looks up from his data pad, astonished. “On the beach? But when—”

“You remember, right, Bodhi?” Chirrut says. “You saw them from your ship.”

“I…” Ardinn peers into Bodhi’s face, and Cassian watches his expression as he descends into confusion.

“Yes,” Jyn says, “that’s right. We were running across the beach…”

Cassian glances at her, one eyebrow raised just so slightly; Ardinn doesn’t seem to notice. It seems that Jyn’s jaw is clenched—not in its usual tension, but in her struggle to keep from laughing.

Noticing his sustained bemusement, Jyn shrugs and leans over, ”Chirrut appears to be having fun. Thought I’d go along with it.”

He stares back, trying to tell, but it doesn’t seem like she’s intentionally covering for him. She’s just following Chirrut’s lead—Chirrut, who apparently, while Cassian tuned him out, was narrating a whole series of falsehoods—and Jyn is joining him, probably out of boredom or obstinance or a mix of both.

“Right,” he says, mouth quirking up at the corners.

Chirrut clears his throat. “I was saying, Captain Andor followed Sergeant Erso…” His smile is annoyingly transparent, but considering the guardian is saving him, Cassian decides to let it go. “Blaster fire rained from above as they dodged the legs of AT-ATs, sand spraying in their faces. Baze and I provided cover as we could, and all the while, Director Krennic pursued them mercilessly across the bay…”

Then, somehow, Jyn is back at the Citadel, facing down a TIE fighter singlehandedly. It’s unclear how she made it from the beach to the top of the tower, but Ardinn is too busy typing furiously into his datapad that he doesn’t seem to notice this time.

As Cassian listens, he thinks he recognizes almost every strand of rumor he’s heard, glommed together in a convoluted story that defies time and space.

It seems, inevitably, that he’ll be saved by Chirrut’s creativity and love of storytelling. No one else gets a word in, except when asked directly. Cassian watches, hiding the hints of a smile behind his hand, sharing amused glances with Jyn.

“I’m sorry, can we go back?” the confused interviewing asks, typing furiously into his datapad. “Was that _before_ or _after_ Captain Andor climbed up the data vault?”

Cassian glances to Chirrut.

But everyone turns to him.

What words did he prepare?

“Before,” Jyn says, when Cassian remains silent.

“So while you were shooting down the TIE fighter,” the interviewer says slowly, “Captain Andor was climbing the stacks?”

“That’s right,” Jyn says.

“I have in my notes that it took him…” He consults his data pad. Cassian glances at Jyn’s face; he can’t bear to watch and he can’t look away. “...about two minutes to climb the tower.” (Jyn smirks. Cassian wonders what kind of clearance this man has that he knows that information.) “So you’re saying during this time, you combatted a TIE fighter, prepared the plans for delivery, and realigned the antenna.”

“Oh,” she says, glancing at Chirrut. He can tell by the tension around her mouth that she’s trying not to laugh. “No wonder you’re confused. We’ve missed something. After I aligned the antenna, the platform exploded. I nearly fell, clung to the dangling catwalk, had to haul myself up. And when I limped my way back to the center of the tower…”

“You found Director Krennic?”

Jyn nods.

“And you talked to him, and then—”

“He monologued,” Chirrut says.

Jyn snorts.

And nods.

“And then Captain Andor shot him?”

“You’ve got it,” she says.

The interviewer pauses, scrolls back through his text. “All in two minutes.”

“That would be correct,” Jyn says.

If the discussion focused on any other topic, he’d be very impressed by her endeavors to keep a straight face.

She certainly knows parts of her story are false.

Just not the right parts.

“Certainly you don’t need all of this for our quick introduction,” Cassian says.

“I want to make sure I don’t miss a single act of heroism,” the interviewer says, “since your crew was robbed originally of your proper celebration.” He finishes scrolling, apparently finds his place. “So, Captain Andor, you’ve fallen fifty feet…” (This is getting absurd, Cassian thinks.) “...you wake up on the platform, alone. You haul yourself up, back in agony, and continue up the stacks. What’s going through your mind?”

He is a spy. He is a liar. Lying comes easily to him. He excels at lying.

And it’s all part of the game now, isn’t it?

Jyn catches his eye, offers a small, half-grin. Meant for encouragement, but her eyes have lost most of the teasing glint.

She wants to hear this answer.

She wants to hear his real answer.

“You mean, uh,” he starts, glancing around at the rest of the Rogue One crew. “As I was—making my way to the top of the tower?”

(A very pointed rephrasing.)

“Yes, as you were climbing the tower,” the interviewer says.

(Why does the armrest feel so slick?)

“As I was ascending the tower,” he starts again, glancing back at Jyn. “I just.” He clears his throat. “I just thought.”

_Pain. Agony. A draft, wind blowing in his face. He is alone on a platform. Carefully, carefully, he twists his neck to look back up at the shaft, fingers clenching the metal of the catwalk as he feels the world spin._

_The scene above is entirely different. Jyn is gone, blaster fire is gone._

_He can only assume she has made it._

_He can only assume she is at the top._

_And if that Imperial in the white suit is gone, he has followed._

_He must protect her. (He must ensure the mission.)_

_He must find Jyn._

His hands are shaking.

“There wasn’t the time,” he says slowly. He can feel it, the pressure of their gazes, but he stays focused on Jyn. “I couldn’t get there fast enough.”

“But you did,” Ardinn says, “and in two minutes—you could have been a rock climber in another life!” He chuckles to himself, but no one else joins in.

Jyn’s face is still, any lingering amusement drained, gone, and she just stares at him.

“I didn’t climb up the tower,” he blurts out.

Everyone looks up sharply, but no one says anything.

“I knew it,” the interview mutters. “That part of the story made no sense.”

“ _That_ part of the story…” someone else says, but Cassian doesn’t see who and doesn’t waste any cognitive function on identifying the voice when he’s still staring at Jyn.

“Is this true?” she asks, looking up at him, her face uncharacteristically unreadable to him.

He nods. “Yes.”

“Okay,” she says, turning back to Ardinn. “So we were at the top of the tower, I had just taken down the TIE fighter…”

“Wait, Jyn…” Cassian says, reaching out, touching her arm. “We should talk about this.”

Now her look _is_ readable, very clearly displays confusion and possible concern regarding his sanity. “Talk about what?”

“That I lied to you…” She starts to interrupt him, but he holds up a hand. “That I didn’t… that I didn’t do this great thing for you…”

“Cassian,” she says, taking his hand. She stares at him for a moment, through the bangs slightly covering her eyes, shakes them out. When she finally speaks, it’s only to say, “You did.”

“But…”

“Of course you didn’t climb the data stacks,” she says. “Don’t know why I ever thought you did. Didn’t think too hard about it, I guess.” She shrugs. “It doesn’t matter how you got there. It just matters that you did.”

“The whole base thinks…”

She actually laughs at this. “Yea, so? The whole base thinks I took down a TIE fighter on my own. Everyone thinks Chirrut is a Jedi. Everyone’s afraid of Baze.” She stares at him. “ _Baze_. Who lets Chirrut braid his hair.”

He snorts, but can’t suppress his smile. “What about Bodhi?”

“Those stories are true.”

“Wait a minute—wait a minute!”

Everyone turns to look at their stunned interviewer. “Are you telling me—are you saying—has _anything_ you’ve said in the last half hour been true?”

“The Force shall reveal all,” Chirrut says again.

Ardinn stares. If he were a droid, Cassian thinks he might be malfunctioning.

He glances down at his data pad.

“If you’re not going to take this seriously…” he starts, blinking furiously.

“You’ll what?” Jyn says. “Take away our medals?”

He opens his mouth, closes it, holds up a finger, still says nothing.

#

He does not, in fact, take away their medals.

Finally wise to their game, Nash Ardinn finds his revenge in proceeding precisely as he’d always planned.

A week after storming out of the briefing room, Ardinn stands at his podium, delivering the most dramatic rendition of the Rogue One story ever told.

And somehow, it’s all true.

With one exception.

Cassian Andor still climbs the tower with a broken back.

When he’s finished, Ardinn turns to the crew standing to his right on the dais, all of them humbly ducking their heads, resisting the urge to fidget, to flee.

They can only admit, they brought this on themselves.

He places a medal over each of their heads.

They smile politely.

They wait.

The ceremony ends, they slink out into the hall, and rip the medals from their necks.

“Sorry Cass,” Jyn says, stashing her medal into a pocket on her vest. “Looks like everyone knows your secret now.”

He raises his eyebrows.

She smiles at him, looks at him the same way she had in the hangar, when he’d said ‘Welcome home,’ like she’d always been waiting to hear those words.

“That you’d do absolutely anything for me,” she says.

From somewhere off to his left, Bodhi chimes in, “That’s nothing new!”

Cassian turns to Bodhi, says, “I think I saw Luke lingering at the back of the hall.”

Bodhi blushes, mutters something in Jedhan that Cassian now understands to be rude, but heads back inside. Chirrut and Baze, it seems, have already disappeared.

“And Jyn,” Cassian says, “We’re not stopping at that weapons market—”

She huffs and rolls her eyes. “Thought it might be worth a shot.”

“It’s a mission,” he says. “We stick to the parameters.”

“Yes, Captain,” she says.

He continues down the hall, to start preparing their ship for take off.

“Cassian,” Jyn says, rushing after him. He glances at her out of the corner of his eye, but when he sees her expression, he stops and steps to the side. She follows him, stares up at him, bites her lip.

“I just,” she says. He nods. “I meant to tell you, before. Thank you. For caring about…” she pauses. “The truth,” she finally says, although he swears she was going to say something else.

He takes a breath, reaches out and holds her hand. “Always,” he says.

She grins.

“Come on,” he says, moving forward again, tugging her hand. “We’ve got a mission to prep for.”

“About that…”

“Jyn…”

“This isn’t about the weapons market,” she says.

“Okay.”

“So there’s a factory on the other side,” she says.

“Jyn—”

“It manufactures security droids.”

He sighs.

“Please let me do this for you.”

He considers.

“If you can climb a data tower with a broken back,” she says, “surely you can figure out—”

“Fine.”

“We’ll do it?”

He nods. “Just—don’t tell anyone.”

“Yea,” she says. “Fair enough.”


End file.
